


silently we leap across the darkness

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From across the room, he hears Sam clear his throat, and Castiel moves his head up. Sam is looking at him, brow furrowed. “You ok?” he asks, which is nice, if kind of unnecessary. Castiel suspects that none of them are anywhere near ok. He has learned, however, that humans – and maybe even angels – quite often are more or less not ok. It's not be ignored, though also not something to loose all hope over. </p><p>“I'm... concerned,” he finally settles on. Castiel doesn't specify who he is concerned about. From the nervous glances Castiel has been casting over the course of the last hour at both his cell phone and the doorway leading to the library, Sam probably gets it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	silently we leap across the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> this is a companion piece to my fic "blow smoke in your eyes"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**silently we leap across the darkness**

 

_and take my hands apart_

_i wouldn't change a single thing_

_this night is both of us alone_

 

_so now_

_what light is in your touch at all_

_when deep  and sinking_

_down and  
_

_down_

 

 

 

 

 

Castiel is walking in circles.

 

He arrived to find Sam bend over the library tables, trying in vain to get order in the chaos of books and files strewn across them. Sam had looked up when he entered, and given him a nod and a tired wave. Castiel would tell Sam to get some rest, except he knows Dean's brother will want to talk to him about what happened first, about what they are going to do. Sam knows that he needs rest, and Sam is going to rest so that he can be alert later, but first he will want Castiel to be open with him, to try and find a way to fix this.

 

It's a thing Castiel admires about Sam. His genuine strength is very much needed in a situation that is about as hopeless as it gets.

 

Now, Sam has been quiet for several minutes. He's still seated at the table, his arms laid out in front of him, with only the occasional twitch of his fingers around the papers he looking through to betray his worry. Castiel though can not sit still. His mind swings back and forth between Claire and Dean chaotically, a thought about one of them leading him back to the other, and so forth. Maybe the universe is trying to telling him something.

 

Or maybe the universe is trying to fuck him over, again.

 

Castiel has apparently stopped walking, for the ground has stopped moving where his gaze was fixed at somewhere around his feet.

 

From across the room, he hears Sam clear his throat, and Castiel moves his head up. Sam is looking at him, brow furrowed. “You ok?” he asks, which is nice, if kind of unnecessary. Castiel suspects that none of them are anywhere near ok. He has learned, however, that humans – and maybe even angels – quite often are more or less not ok. It's not be ignored, though also not something to loose all hope over.

 

“I'm... concerned,” he finally settles on. Castiel doesn't specify who he is concerned about. From the nervous glances Castiel has been casting over the course of the last hour at both his cell phone and the doorway leading to the library, Sam probably gets it.

 

Sam nods, then looks back down at the page in his hand. He doesn't seem to be actually reading it.

 

They've been through all the lore.

There is nothing.

 

One hand tightens around the cell phone in his pocket, the other bunches the fabric of his coat in a fist. Not so long ago, he came here looking just like this, and found a lamp shattered to pieces, books all over the floor. And Dean, his shoulders slumped and his eyes red-rimmed and broken, smiling at him and _“Look at you, all suited up.”_

 

And only hours later, walking away from them and vanishing.

 

The plastic of the cell phone is creaking under his tight grip, threatening to crack, and he is forced to let it go.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Dean finally walks through the doorway Castiel had kept in his peripheral vision for the last few hours, Castiel stops walking in circles for the second time. He suddenly can't stay upright under his own strength anymore either, has to lean against one of the stone pillars to stay standing.

 

And if he thought he would be barely able to look away from Dean, now he has to avert his gaze and look anywhere but in his direction. Castiel recognizes it as the cowardly fear it is, that Dean will bring up the last real conversation the two of them shared. It's ridiculous, in that way, that Castiel tries to avoid looking at Dean for that reason, as if it would seriously hinder Dean from bringing it up if he wanted.

 

To his defense, it's more than that – the brief glimpse Castiel got of him when Dean walked towards them showed that Dean was tense, almost uncertain in the way he approached them. His cheeks looked hollow, the space under his eyes dark. Even his clothing looked strangely unfamiliar. Their eyes met for barely a few seconds, and the fear Castiel saw in Dean's made him tear his gaze away guiltily.

 

He could feel Dean stare at him for a moment longer, then look over to Sam. It only made the guilt churn more profoundly in his chest, and he can do nothing but hope that Dean understands. The same way he didn't respond to Dean's words in the restaurant, only listened.

 

Now Dean is the one who listens without saying anything, while Castiel explains about what he suggests they do. Not that he needs to say anything. Castiel knows how outrageous his plan is. He can look at Dean now, because Dean is bracing himself on the table, his head down and eyes shielded from Castiel's view. It makes it easier, and that alone makes it obvious again how wrong everything is right now.

 

Dean is not walking away from them this time, but the calm feels too much like stillness, like slipping away blind and in silence.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even during his time as a human, Castiel had rarely dreamed. Those mornings when he'd awoken in the gas station's back room, he almost always came back to himself sad, or strangely unsettled, but rarely ever remembered his dreams, or even felt like he had been dreaming. Sometimes, he'd have the vague memory of light and dark shapes, voices that didn't know words. He didn't really think about them, too overwhelmed and busy with adjusting to his daily life time and time again.

 

Until Dean came to him after he had called him, and dragged him out to work the case with him. And smiled, and told him he was proud of Castiel, and waved him goodbye with a sad look in his eyes.

 

Castiel had gone to sleep that night and turned from one side to the other for what had felt like hours, the abrupt presence and then just as sudden loss of Dean by his side, in addition to Ephraim's words, making his heart pound with adrenaline and uncertainty. Castiel had noticed that something was weighing on Dean, but when wasn't that the case? He barely knew Dean any different. And he hadn't had it in himself to ask.

 

So when, in the early and cold hours of the morning, he'd startled awake out of a dream, sweaty and shivering, he didn't know what to make of it. The images, he'd managed to push away with cold water and daily routine, but the sounds had stayed in his ears for hours. That had been the first thing he'd seen, in his dream, a rush and push of brown and blackened leaves, dead and dried out. They'd swirled all around, like caught in an electric storm. At first he'd thought he was back inside Nora's house, but then he realized it was different, only almost too dark to make it out. The leaves were everywhere, their scent of decay suffocating him. And under the rustling of them piling up in the corners, obstructing Castiel's vision and blackening the walls with their damaged shapes, there was a buzzing sound too, like insects in a glass jar.

 

In his dream, Castiel had took a step forward, and suddenly wasn't alone anymore. There was Dean, right in front of him, and Castiel shouted something, but it was lost under the noise all around. For a second, he'd almost feared the leaves would get inside his mouth if he opened it again, plaster down his throat and choke him. But they didn't even touch him. Instead, they were swirling around Dean, clinging to his clothing, to where his skin was exposed. The right side of him was almost completely invisible under them, nothing but a mass of black and dead.

 

Cold shivers were racing up and down Castiel's back by then, there was a voice in the air that had no words, that was a growl and a howl and a cry all at once. His feet were rooted to the ground. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, for the fear that gripped him.

 

Dean was staring right at him. There was blood at the side of his face, his teeth, when he opened his mouth, were stained with it. Not a sound came from his throat. His eyes were dark green pools filled with naked fear.

 

Castiel lurched forward violently, forced his hands to grip – but all his fingers found were leaves.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He texts Claire again, and again gets nothing back. He's lost count of how many times that's happened by now.

 

Sam is busy with preparations now, and Dean has disappeared again. With a last look on his cell phone – 0 messages – Castiel leaves the library, walks down the hallways.

 

He finds Dean in the kitchen. He had expected to find him in his room, but the soft sound of a knife hitting wood in irregular intervals, of running water, had drawn him away from it. He comes to a stop in the doorway, stares at Dean's back.

 

Dean is slouched over the counter, carefully chopping vegetables with a knife that looks too small and strangely inaccurate for the task. He doesn't turn around to acknowledge Castiel, but Castiel doesn't think that Dean is ignoring him. He'd seemed out of it, earlier. Dean likely simply didn't notice him.

 

Castiel leans against the doorway and watches him for a while. It's painfully obvious that Dean would consider this inappropriate – creepy – were he aware. But he isn't. And it's rare, for Castiel, to see Dean like this. Unguarded, doing something because he wants to do it, not because he has too. At least, he can hope that's the case here.

 

Castiel can't really see Dean's hands from this angle, but he doesn't have to. He has seen them do many things over the time he's known Dean. Mostly, they've been used to either hurt others, or protect others. They've been hurt in return just as much. Maybe more. Castiel used to marvel, way back then, how Dean could be so careless with them. Why he'd still flinch at every cut to his skin, in spite of that. Castiel hadn't known pain then, not like this. Hadn't known, either, how sensitive skin was, and how you could starve and hunger for gentle touch as worse as for food and drink.

 

Dean is stirring something on the stove now, and suddenly, Castiel can't bear to stand so far away, unable to see Dean's face, and having Dean be oblivious to his presence.

 

He enters the kitchen and walks until he comes to a stop at Dean's right side. Dean looks up once, his expression relaxed, if tired and weary. A strange sadness flashes through Dean's eyes for the short time their gazes meet, then he looks down again. The slouch in his spine doesn't straighten itself out despite Castiel's proximity. He doesn't seem to know what to say, and with a pang Castiel realizes that he misses seeing Dean smile. Misses his stupid jokes, the way he'd stand close to Castiel, tug at his clothing, let his hand linger on Castiel's arm so that his warmth would seep through the fabric and all the way down to Castiel's skin, an unknown sensation strange and soothing at once.

 

And now, all they seem to be able to do is stand still and silent, unconnected.

 

Inevitably, Castiel's eyes are drawn to Dean's hands, curling around the pots and handles and various spoons. Watching Dean's hands move, his thoughts must drift for several moments, because it takes him that long to notice that Dean's hands are shaking.

 

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and with them comes a wave of sudden anger, sharpening the frustration that was already under the surface. Instinctively, he starts reaching for Dean's hand, now frozen around the spoon he'd been stirring tomato sauce with, then stops himself just short of touching Dean's skin. Castiel's touch will not help. Castiel could take Dean's hands in his own, but there would be nothing he could do. For all that time he'd craved touch, and now it's utterly useless.

 

He pulls away, angry at himself, at –

 

Castiel can not do this. He steps away from Dean, who is staring at him. There are words that are stuck in Castiel's throat, he has no idea what they are.

 

Castiel turns around and rushes out of the room in silence, leaving more silence behind.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He goes to the spare room Dean carried him into the first time he was here, injured and defeated, having just lost the angel tablet. He had half expected that it had been given to Kevin at some point, or perhaps Charlie, the friend of the Winchesters that Dean mentions sometimes. But Castiel finds it the same way it was last time. There's not even dust on the surfaces, and the covers on the bed smell fresh when he lies down on his back on top of them.

 

Castiel is aware that he should not be doing this. He has to drive back to Claire soon – still 0 messages – and in the meantime, he should see if he can help Sam. Should be with Sam and Dean, for how much he has missed them.

 

But he finds that he needs to catch his breath, order his thoughts, alone, after what – after whatever just happened.

 

In an attempt to distract himself, and also because it's been several hours since the last one, he writes Claire a text message. While he types, he feels regret lodge in his throat that he never thought to send Dean messages through all the times they were apart but Castiel had had a cell phone at his disposal. Text messages may be less than voice messages, or actual conversations, but they are still useful, in their own way. He'd never realized how much it can mean, to receive a message from someone you miss, or worry about. Someone you just like to hear from, even if only through words on a screen. Emoticons are even more helpful. You don't even have to say what you feel, they do it for you. It almost manages to make him smile, the thought that Dean must really love them then.

 

Castiel lays the phone down beside him when he picture on the wall across from the bed catches his eye. When he was here the last time, it was an oil painting of a stormy sea, he is sure of it. Now, it's a stream, curling and fighting it's way through a bed of rocks, a dark forest at the back.

 

Castiel looks at it and cold shivers race down his arms. Daniel at the river flashes through his mind, _nighttime around here is a revelation_ , the water under the bridge where Dean had left them.

 

He has to look away and, stuck by restlessness, he leaves the room behind and goes back to the library. It's empty.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Castiel picks the research up where Sam had left it, presumably to go to sleep. They have a lot to cover if they want to make this as save as possible. Convincing the other angels alone will be a task difficult enough on it's own.

 

For hours, Castiel stays in the chair Sam has vacated, drawing sigils and double checking if they are going to have to alter the wards or not. It takes time, and even more so because he can barely concentrate. He is unsettled, almost forgets to check his phone at all. Several times, he catches himself staring at empty space, and the rustling of the pages when he turns them is too loud in the air, and they settle heavy like leaves on his hands.

 

Finally, he shoves the books away from him, aggravated and angry with himself. He leans back and drags a hand down his face, breathes deeply, but the feeling of _wrong_ doesn't fade. Castiel stares at the wooden tabletop, tries to find a pattern and follow it, but the brown swirls and patches almost seem threatening in the yellowish light, making his heartbeat quicken even more. Something is itching at the back of his head, a hum like electricity in the air, only it's dead silent, the space around him absolutely still.

 

It brings back to Castiel's mind the oppressing silence he'd felt standing next to Dean, that gulf he hadn't known how to breach. Dean was there, less than an arm's length away, and yet not.

 

With an abrupt movement, Castiel pushes away from the table, stands up.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean's room isn't locked, the light is on, but he is not there.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Castiel is walking back from the gun range with every intention of waking Sam up when he walks past the kitchen.

 

It's not empty.

 

Dean is standing with his back to Castiel, slumped over the counter next to the stove, just as he had hours earlier. His legs and arms are trembling, shaking, with the effort of keeping himself upright.

 

When Castiel rushes over and puts a hand on his shoulder, Dean doesn't react at all.

 

Castiel wants to say his name, but his throat is burning, he can barely breathe. Dean's eyes are closed, but moving under the lids, his jaw clenched shut as if in pain. His hands are gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles are turning white, and there's blood oozing from several fingers of his right hand, were the skin is scraped raw. His breathing is short and irregular, gasping.

 

Dean's _asleep_.

 

And not waking up.

 

Cold fear loosens Castiel's tongue again, and he forces Dean's name past the lump in his throat, seizes him by the shoulders and starts to shake him.

 

“Dean, wake up! Wake up! _Dean_!”

 

Castiel can feel Dean's body slump in his hold, unable to keep itself upright anymore. Castiel grips Dean's shoulders, taking most of his weight, and that's when Dean draws in a shuddering breath, his head finally lifting slightly. Dean freezes, then starts flailing in panic instantly, or tries to, his arms clearly not cooperating. He only quietens when Castiel tells him to calm down, then turns halfway in Castiel's hold, his weight pitching dangerously to one side, and stares at Castiel.

 

There is confusion in his eyes, but recognition as well. Mostly, he looks alarmingly disoriented and afraid. The realization that Dean has no idea where he is or how he ended up here, asleep on his feet for hours, drives Castiel almost to a panic. Dean however, doesn't seem to be able to remove his hands from the death grip he has on the counter. Castiel has to pry them away, as gently as possible, while leaning Dean's weight against himself. Dean feels too warm against Castiel, almost feverish. For all the strength he's putting into holding onto the counter, his shaking hands feel fragile in Castiel's grip when he finally manages to pull them free, the skin broken in places and bleeding freely. Castiel pulls Dean's hands closer to himself, runs his thumbs over the knuckles. Dean doesn't react. It closes Castiel's throat up all over again.

 

Castiel tries to drag Dean to one of the chairs, shouldering his weight, but it's like Dean's body just locks down before they've even reached it, forcing them both to stand still once again.

 

He tugs at Dean again, but Dean's legs just don't move, his chest sinking and lifting unevenly with each breath. His eyes are glazed over and unfocused. He's staring at Castiel, lost and silent.

 

Castiel opens his mouth, but once again, the words aren't there.

 

He moves his arms around Dean then, to keep him upright, keep him close. Dean's arms twitch, as if trying to wrap around Castiel in return, like he did at the clearing, but he can't seem to lift them now.

 

Castiel leans his head against Dean's chest then, searching out his warmth, the beat of his heart. A sob tears itself out of his throat before he can bite his lip to stop them.

 

He has to shut his eyes tightly when Dean leans his head against Castiel's, keeps it there.

 

 

 

 

 

>

 

Hours later, he returns to the room.

 

The river is gone.

 

 

 

 


End file.
